I woke up with the sun
by antomato
Summary: If I loose myself tonight, it'll be by your side. If I loose myself tonight, it'll be you and I. UK/Spain


**a/n: i'm working on a valentines day fic! hopefully i'll have it up in time for you all**  
**here's a little ficlet/drabble to entertain you all for the time being**

**enjoy!**

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He's beautiful.

He's everything.

He is an angel, a lover, a man of passion. He's strength, he's perseverance, he's hope. He's an embodiment of willpower, of survival, he is beauty. There's nothing but adoration and affection in his touch as fingers ever so gently glide over tender flesh, litter and marked with history and old wars fought between tired old men. He memorizes them, each dip and curve, each rise and fall, he listens to the soft drumming in his chest, the soft rustle of breath that leaves his gorgeous, beautiful red lips. Arthur's lost in this man, this entity, this embodiment of such rich culture— rich in language and art and war, and all but separates them is salty sea water in their geography.

He's lost in those deep, forest-like eyes that glisten and look like the most gorgeous bursts of color as soft light flutters against them. Arthur's lost in the confines of his body, of his skin, of his breath and his voice. The soft chuckles and puffs of breath the brush over his ears as fingers glide over those little sensitive patches, it brings a grin to his own thin lips as he traces the map that makes up Antonio's body. The soft rise and fall of his broad chest, the soft, fine chocolate colored hairs that cover those tender intimate places, the scars, everything. He's so beautiful, beautiful in everything he does, everything he is. The way he laughs, the soft glistening of his eyes, his bronze skin, the soft curves of muscle that outline his body, his smile, everything.

He's sure he's going to burst. He feels warm— Arthur can't explain why, but it's such a full, warm filling and he's sure it's because of the Spaniard that rests in his arms. He's the sun, Arthur's daring Prince and the Sun of his world. He's intoxicating, his joy is. He's happiness, his hope. He's Arthur's hope, Arthur's joy. The feeling of being near him, of touching him, feeling him and memorizing such a body from the hands of the heavens in ways no other can, it's such an intimate and precious emotion, one cannot explain it. As much as he traces and charts this lovely body, he's always lost in it. Arthur wouldn't have it any other way, though. He adores his lover wholly and completely.

Arthur never complains when he looses himself in everything that his Spaniard is, because there's no other way he'd rather be. There's no where he'd rather be than here, next to Antonio, fingers resting on his soft cheek and his lips glued to the flesh and skin of the Iberian that lays in his grasp. He'd never bargain anything for these moments; these moments where his legs and stomach is meshed against the warm body of the object of his affection. There's kissing, soft words, gentle touches— and though they've known these bodies and these hands for years upon years, sometimes they're still a little timid. Still a little cautious as they kiss, as they whisper against each other's skin, still too timid to pass that line. They always do, though. There always learning about each other, but there's no other in the world who know's more about their lover then they know of each other.

There's no other that loves the sun as much as the rain, or the sea as much as the moon. There are no two bodies that fit more perfectly together than the limbs that were crafted and molded for one another's soul and heart as these two. They need no compass, no map, no tool, only the other.

Nights pass slowly while deep love is shared. The hands of the clocks tick a little slower to allow them their time to one another, to allow their devotion to one another's heart endure. Antonio presses his nose against his lover's cheek, his lips peppering soft kisses over reddened cheeks as he moves and nuzzles his nose against the thick, messy ruffles of golden hair while Arthur strains to hold him nearer. Their bodies could never be as close and entangled as their souls, and such a cruel trick of fate to make such lovers immortal. They're whispering quietly, exchange words under the notice of the wind so as not to let it steal them away. Terms of endearment and warm breath surround the two of them, soaking them in an atmosphere of such rich and deep passion not a mortal could endure but them. Arthur continues to whisper to his beloved as they drift nearer to their dreams, his fingers stroking the dip of his bare back and his leg pressing Antonio upward as the Spaniard buries himself against the coolness of the body next to him. He needs this, he needs Arthur. He needs logic, he needs wisdom, he needs the fresh touch of the rain to quench his burning soul.

They need each other in order to live and endure another day, as immortal and corrupt gods of history and war, they need one another to be able to carry the chains and weights that enrapture their souls. The Briton presses a loving kiss to his forehead, brushes several strands of loose hair back into his curly locks, and rests his head against the pillow. A soft, loving smile spreads over his pale features as fingers caress Antonio's cheek while his eyes flutter close and he nestles into the other nation. He's asleep, but he's still warm. He still fills Arthur's soul to the brim and more so that he's nothing but an overflowing sea encased in one set of bones. There's no other word to describe these feelings but warm, and comfort, perhaps gentle and tender in all that they are. He lays awake for the time, watching and listening to the slumbering body that's clung and wrapped itself around his own, smiling lovingly all the while.

They sleep this way, always, as if tomorrow will be stolen from them and they have naught but the night to love enough to satisfy each other (it never is enough, though). They don't move from one another's grasp, though, nestled together as the stars begin to fade and the sun rises to wake them from their nights of passion and endearment. Arthur ignores it, only grunts and turns his head and buries it against the curls of Antonio's hair— Antonio doesn't wake, though. Maybe he's use to how bright and brilliant it is in the mornings (it's not as wondrous as he is to Arthur, of course) from living in such a sunny land for many years. Arthur never is, though— and maybe that's why he's so attracted and in love with such a man. He is the sun, after all.


End file.
